The Consulting Detective, the Doctor and Jackson Coltrane
by SunbakedGeoduck
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic future, in which vampires are a very real and present danger, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Jackson Coltrane try to track down people's loved ones, to save them from being turned or kept as slaves. When Molly Hooper's sister turns up, claiming her sister has been taken as a slave, the hunt is on. And the boys aren't the only ones doing the hunting...
1. Chapter 1

_Hello there! So I got a little bit obsessed with Sherlock recently, as one rightly should, and I had a few ideas about some fanfiction, this being my favourite of the few! I'm a huge Moriarty fan [slightly in love with Andrew Scott, I should not find him as Moriarty as ridiculously attractive as I do, but I don't even care, he's unbelievably scary-hot], so a certain someone's going to be cropping up later... ;) hope you enjoy, drop some reviews if you feel like it, if not, I hope I didn't waste too much of your time. :) Thank you for reading and enjoy!_

"You have got to be kidding me."

Jackson Coltrane grinned widely at the disgust saturating his companion's voice: when he turns to look at her, he almost loses it completely; her look of sheer outrage is just too good, so horrified you'd think he'd just opened a drainage pipe and told her to head on in. Her tiny childlike hands clutched the straps of her worn-out rucksack so tightly the skin at her knuckles was bleached bone white. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"Oh, yeah. It's part of the one man comedy act I plan on premiering all over London." She shot him a venomous look, her big brown eyes narrowed into furious little black slits. His grin widened, and the girl was momentarily distracted in her grievance by the sight of his teeth: the first thing she noticed was that he actually had all of them. She hadn't seen anyone with a full set of teeth in years, not in any recent memory she could recall. The second thing she noted was that they were perfect, completely flawless. Not even a single chip.

She ripped her eyes away from his face and tried not to think about how absurdly handsome his face was. She'd heard the rumours, of the men with the faces of angels, the men who fought the Lost Ones and brought people back from certain death on a regular basis. She just hadn't been expecting Jackson Coltrane to look overwhelmingly attractive she had had to physically restrain herself from pinning him against the wall and fucking him until neither one of them could stand.

Once she'd discovered he was an arrogant, egotistical jackass, the urge had died down a little. Only a little, mind.

"Sherlock's not exactly one for advertising, sweetheart," he says, sounding so patronising her hand twitched a little, savouring the idea of reaching across and slapping him as hard across the face as she could manage. "So, we, er… we improvised. Killed two birds with one stone, as it were. Dive bar by day, consulting detective agency at night."

"It's night time now. And it stills looks like a dive bar."

"I know. We did an excellent job making it look that much more realistic."

"Yeah, I can see that," the girl said, eyeing the man vomiting enthusiastically into the alleyway beside them before looking back to Jackson with a raised eyebrow. He seemed completely unperturbed.

"He's actually just someone we hired to make the place look that extra little bit seedier. Good job, Douglas!" he called to the man behind them. Douglas, taking a breather between retches, staggered back and hit the wall behind him, all the while shouting almost unintelligible curse words at Jackson. Jackson glanced back at the girl, with a bemused look on his face. "Can you believe only about half of that is scripted? Rest of that, entirely improvised. The man's got talent, he really has."

"I didn't realise drinking-so-much-you-pass-out-in-your-own-vomit was all the rage now," the girl commented, watching Douglas sink to the ground, his giant belly looking all the more bulbous as he slumped over; his plethora of chins jiggled happily as he half snored, half choked in his unconsciousness.

Jackson smirked again. "You're clearly not a big drinker."

"It's so hard to remember why that is again."

"It's a mystery to us all," he clapped her shoulder and began walking slowly up the steps, a bounce in his step. "If Sherlock makes you wait a while, I'll show you how I earned my _third _gold medal in drinking-so-much-you-pass-out-in-your-own-vomit."

He nodded to Balthazar, the surly black bouncer standing guard outside, currently eyeing Jackson with a look of mystifying distaste. Balthazar hadn't said one word since John had hired him, not one single word to Jackson, and already the man hated Jackson's guts. Jackson wasn't even mad, he was just impressed, with both his capacity to make new friends and the amount of time that Balthazar could go with keeping such unwavering hatred in his eyes, it was astounding.

Jackson threw open the door and had already taken a step inside before he noticed the girl hadn't followed him inside; she was still staring up at the building, at the big flickering '_St Bart's_' sign that was hanging precariously above the doorway. It desperately needed fixing, it was a tragic accident waiting to happen for anybody that stepped underneath, but Jackson liked the way it looked, liked it so passionately he'd refused to let anybody touch it, even John, who he'd spent a week arguing with over it. It had been Sherlock who'd eventually made the decision for them, much to both men's surprise; Sherlock always sided with John, _always_ (true, the doctor's ideas did cause a significantly fewer number of casualties than Jackson's, but that had nothing to do with the plan themselves, merely the amount of people who'd been in an unfortunate position when said plan had occurred). But, this time, Sherlock had allowed it, _actually allowed _Jackson to keep something he wanted. John had given him a suspicious glance and had asked him what could possibly have possessed him to think this is a good idea.

Sherlock had simply looked at the letters, the big flashing neon red letters, given a typically Sherlock crooked smile, and said, "Danger on your doorstep, John. Couldn't have put it better myself."

"Hey," Jackson said, pulling himself back to the present and walking back towards the girl. "Look, I know what it looks like, okay? I made sure it looked like this. Trust me when I say that we don't harm people looking for help here. There's not a man inside that'll hurt you, you have my word."

The girl met his eyes, his big blue eyes the exact colour of a clear summer sky, and she couldn't find her words. _He's kinder than he looks, kinder and sweeter and __**more**__ than he looks_. She cleared her throat and ran a hand through her dark hair, trying to hide her growing blush. _A blush, for God's sake, Hooper, Jesus wept_. She cleared her throat again and nodded, beginning to walk forwards slowly, waiting for him to pick up the lead again. He slid back into position willingly, a smug look on his face. The girl got the general impression this was a nigh-on constant feature on Jackson Coltrane's handsome face.

"Now, if somehow, by some unforeseeable, unpreventable stroke of bad luck, you _were _to get hurt, we do have an excellent doctor on staff. And, by that, I mean, we have a doctor on staff. And, by that, I mean, he could probably give you first aid. And by that, I mean he could probably call you an ambulance."

The girl rolled her eyes at his back and purposefully avoided meeting the dark eyes of the guard at the door, fixing her with eyes so brown they looked nearly black under the pulsing red light of the sign above them.

0o0

She really didn't know what she'd been expecting. This was exactly how she'd imagined it to be and, at the same time, nothing at all what she'd expected.

There were men everywhere, all talking like they were in competition with each other, all slouched over murky pint glasses filled with frothy brown liquid, their elbows rested on small wooden tables, their heads pulled in close, like they were all in conspiracy. None of them paid much mind when Jackson walked in, a big grin on his face and a shout for a few of the younger, healthier looking guys, all of whom gave a hearty shout back, their language bawdy and full of humour. Only a few more people actually noticed her entrance, despite the fact that she was the only woman (and an attractive woman at that, it hadn't escaped notice) in a crowded bar full of men; she kept close to Jackson's back and didn't make extended eye contact with anyone, trying to keep her breathing steady. In the background, behind the din of voices, she could hear a piano, a live piano. Her breath caught in her throat and she stopped for a moment, dazed. _I've never heard a live piano before_.

Jackson noticed her pause and turned, a knowing smile on his lips. He jerked his head to the right, and she followed his gaze, to the man soulfully playing in the corner; his fingers danced over the white keys so elegantly it looked like he was dancing. The music was sprightly, full of life, bouncing along at such a pace the girl didn't know how any of the men in the room could stop themselves from dancing; this was what dancing was meant for, this was the music dancing was meant to be done to.

"C'mon," Jackson said and, for one heartbreaking moment, the girl thought he meant to move her on, to continue on through the crowd and away from the piano. But, he did something unexpected then: he took her hand and gently pulled her towards the giant instrument, closer and closer until they were literally right in front of it. She reached out with a trembling hand and touched the top of it, ran her fingers over the polished wood. She shivered.

"Kane?" Jackson roared, his voice distinguishable even over the riotous clatter. The piano man looked up, a look of exasperation quickly overtaken by a warm smile as he took in the girl in front of him, not even stopping to check her out like every other guy did. _Jackson Coltrane is still holding your hand_. She glanced down, out of sheer amazement, and, yes, he was in fact still holding her hand. _His skin is so smooth_.

"Hey." Jackson's voice, closer than she was expecting, drew her attention again with a startled jump; he was literally inches away from her face, his big blue eyes shining down directly into hers. _I've never seen properly blue eyes before. _"Stay here with Kane, okay? I'm gunna go find Sherlock."

Her stomach clenched. _Leave me here, alone?!_ But his smile, his warmth, this warmth she'd missed before, made it impossible for her to feel frightened. _And the piano, a __**real **__piano…_

She nodded and, after an encouraging pat from the piano man, sank down onto the elongated stool next to him, watching with an almost hypnotic gaze at his hands as he played. Jackson smiled fondly to himself as he walked away, imagining her reaction if she ever saw Sherlock play. _Her mind would literally explode_.

He forced his way through the crowd, slapping the odd back and shouting the odd vague greeting. Everyone grumbled as he did so, but he caught the fond smiles on their faces as he walked; he was like the little kid, that one little shit that causes so much mischief you just want to slap them silly, but is simultaneously so nauseatingly adorable you couldn't bring yourself to, even if you tried.

At least, that was how _most _people saw him. Well. Most people in this bar. _Well_. Most people in that one particular corner over there.

He barged through the crowd and finally emerged on the edges, right by the door to the backroom; he swung his wrist around and the chain wrapped around it flew out of his sleeve, the small silver key landing obediently in his open palm. He opened the door quickly and shut it just as quick, locking it behind him with deft hands. _Sorry, sunshine, _he remembered saying to Balthazar as he'd approached cautiously, hatred burning out of his every pore. _Members only. Special secret handshake policy._

Come to think of it, maybe that's why Balthazar hated him so much. Who knew.

Jackson made his way along the corridor, marvelling at how clean it was. He stopped briefly to scrape the bottom of his shoe along the bottom of the nearest wall, wincing as he saw flecks of mud smeared across the dark red wallpaper. _Eh. John won't notice_. Sherlock, however, would definitely notice. He just wouldn't care at all. A factor which had helped Jackson exponentially during his time with the detective duo.

He reached the end of the corridor and rapped his knuckles against the door. John answered it almost immediately, a dark glower on his face. "Where the hell have you been?!"

"At my annual 'Hideous Jumper' convention. Did you want me to pick your awards as per usual, or should I just get someone to pick them up later?"

John scowled up at Jackson, resisting the ever present urge to kick him. "Jax."

"Writing in my thought journal?"

"_Jax_."

"Picking up girls?"

"For god's sake, Jax-"

"Ah, that last one was actually true. In a manner of speaking. New case," Jackson said and felt a smug sense of satisfaction rise up as he clocked the light beginning to burn in John's eyes. "See: not just a pretty face and impeccable fashion sense," he said, easing his way past John and further into room, collapsing with a loud groan onto the sofa in front of him. The scent of old leather was everywhere then and Jackson had to stop himself from pressing his face against the brown leather cushioning. _No smell in the world like it_.

"And what is wrong with this?" John gestured to his jumper with a playfully wounded expression on his face.

"It's hideous."

"You're not even looking at me."

"I don't have to; I can sense its presence."

"It's really not that hideous."

"John, it's _mustard yellow_. You know how I feel about mustard yellow."

"Oh good lord, it's not the mustard yellow debacle again, is it?" a new voice joined them in the room, low and rich and quick, full of exasperation and condescension. Sherlock had joined them.

Jackson didn't even bother to look up as he heard Sherlock pottering around, moving odds and ends around the small office they'd decorated for themselves (Jackson's only contribution had been the sofa). "There was no _debacle-_" John said, struggling to keep the serious tone in his voice.

"Sherlock, mustard yellow?" Jackson said, his voice slightly muffled by the leather cushion.

"A resounding _no_."

"Since when did we elect Sherlock head of decisions?" John asked helplessly.

"We didn't."

"We had a meeting, it was just that neither of you were _there_," Sherlock said absently, strolling into Jackson's line of view for a brief moment before spinning around on the spot, his grey-purple scarf whirling around with him with a flourish, and disappearing again. With anybody else, Jackson would've assumed he was agitated, the way he was flying around the room. Jackson would've been more concerned if he'd been standing still.

"_Dictator _of decisions has a nice ring to it," John said wryly.

"Don't give him ideas," Jackson said, and he heard John's quiet chuckle in the background.

"I dread to think what that makes the two of you," Sherlock said quickly and, before either of the other men had a chance to respond, Sherlock span back round to face Jackson, swatting at him with a stray newspaper. Jackson sprang upright, scowling at the back of Sherlock's black suit jacket, still as bafflingly pristine as usual. Jackson had no idea how he kept it so immaculate: he himself didn't own a single set of clothes that weren't ripped or torn in some various fashion. "You were out. All day," Sherlock said, not accusingly, as he tossed the newspaper onto Jackson's lap. "Fishing?" Sherlock called, disappearing into the small kitchenette they had attached to the office. Jackson could smell tea. He licked his lips eagerly.

"Quite successfully," Jackson replied, unfolding the newspaper and scanning the headlines. He barely read the papers anymore, for the reason he recalled all too well as he read the front page: **SURGE IN VAMPIRE ATTACKS, ESTIMATED MILLIONS NOW PART OF ELABORATE ILLEGAL SLAVE TRADE. **Jackson had never known life before vampires, before the plague of them had been unleashed onto the world all those years ago, nobody in this day and age except for the vampires themselves remembered that. He briefly wondered what newspapers could possibly have written about before then. It was the topic they thrived upon now, with nearly every single news being related to vampire attacks, or more people being taken as slaves for vampires, or even people who thought humans shouldn't be persecuting vampires as they were. _What a fucking joke_, Jackson thought bitterly to himself as he folded up the paper and tossed it, with relish, onto the roaring fireplace in front of him. The spark of heat that flourished as it devoured the paper made the hairs on Jackson's neck stand up.

"New case?" Sherlock shouted hopefully.

"Yeppp," Jackson said, sinking back into the cushions. "Young kid, a girl, maybe twenty one, twenty two-"

John snorted, settling into an armchair by John's feet. The fire danced across his handsome face, the orange flames setting his thick crop of blonde hair ablaze with colour. "Remind me, how old are you?"

"I am twenty-motherfucking-" Jackson grinned devilishly as Sherlock shouted his objection to the curse word. "Six. I am a man _grown_, son."

"A man grown who… has been known on occasion to scream at the sight of a small insect?"

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"I haven't decided yet. It's not looking good, Jax, not at all."

"Next time, doc, I'll be crushing cockroaches with whatever piece of mustard yellow of yours I can find."

"_I knew that was what that stain on my jumper was_."

"Back to the realm of the vaguely interesting, please," Sherlock said, re-emerging from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea. "The amount of times the pair of you wish to discuss _mustard yellow _is quite frankly disturbing."

"This coming from the man who still has a pair of vampire fangs sitting in our ice box."

Jackson's loud laugh earned him a glowering look from Sherlock. "Jackson. _If you would please_."

Jackson tried to ignore John's quiet giggling in the background, knowing he'd set him off again if he didn't force himself not to. It was odd, the relationship he and John had: one moment, John was like the father he never had, the next the pair of them were like children, always teasing each other mercilessly. The only time they ever stopped was to tease Sherlock, something which annoyed Sherlock and amused the other two no end. Occasionally, it got under Sherlock's skin, like when there was actual work to be done and the two of them would _not stop yammering about mustard yellow_, but Jackson was like his younger brother, mischievous and teasing and always getting into some form of trouble while maintaining a genuinely likeable air about him. Something Sherlock's actual brother lacked entirely, a factor which was most likely why Sherlock was so fond of Jackson: Jackson never took things seriously, never stopped for a second to worry about something completely unnecessary, whereas Mycroft… well. That was all Mycroft did. Everything was a _very serious problem_, there was never anything mildly troubling or slightly problematic, it always had to be _very serious, very serious indeed_. Sherlock knew his role in the government, the remaining shred of a governmental body that Britain had maintained all these years while other countries around them had fallen into complete lawless anarchy, was of the highest importance, try as Mycroft might to claim otherwise. In fact, he knew that Mycroft was probably the reason why the government still existed. Not that Sherlock particularly cared about what the government did or didn't do. Laws barely touched them here, the new laws that the government had imposed. All they had left were the common laws. The ones everybody knew you didn't break.

Jackson cleared his throat, drawing Sherlock back into the present. "This girl says her sister's dropped off the radar, not even the slightest drop of communication. She did some digging, went to the place her sister was staying, and she says the whole place was a mess, signs of violent entry, signs of a violent exit." Jackson pauses briefly, thinking over the girl's face. It never occurred to him until recently that, though every client they had was different, they all had that same haunted look about them. That exact same expression. _Having a vampire take your loved one'll do that to you_.

He gave himself a shake. "I checked out her story, and everything checks. Molly Hooper vanished two days ago without any-"

John vaulted from his chair and Sherlock dropped his tea, his jaw clenched as he lurched forward to put his hands roughly on Jackson's shoulders, his carefully cut fingers digging in painfully. "Say that name again."

Jackson glanced from John to Sherlock, confused. "Molly Hooper?"

"You're sure she said that name?" Jackson nodded slowly. "One hundred percent sure?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Jackson said. A feeling of agitation was growing in his stomach. "Guys: who the hell is Molly Hooper?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Molly Hooper knew it before she'd even opened her eyes: this was trouble on a level she'd never encountered before._

_She kept her eyes closed, trying to take in quiet, deep breaths without drawing attention to herself. Her insides shook like they were dancing. _

_**Focus, Molly. Think, **__**really think**__**. **_

_She strained her ears, listening to the sounds of the new world around her; quietly, so quietly Molly wasn't entirely sure she wasn't imagining it, she could hear sobbing, the sounds of coarse laughter and the rattling clink of chains._

_Her breath caught in her throat and her chest tightened, locking up so painfully it felt like someone had stabbed a searing hot knife into her spine. She was dimly aware of the race of her heartbeat, pounding against her ribcage so powerfully it felt like it was trying to break through her bones. _

_**Panic attack. This is a panic attack, Molly**__._

_Acknowledging it didn't help it in the slightest. Every breath she took, everything got louder, so much louder; she couldn't even hear herself think, all she could hear was the sobbing, the hysterical wailing of the desperate and the damned, the humourless dry chuckle of a mad man, a sadist, a killer. And the chains, the scrape of chains across a floor…_

"_Hey. Hey, guys, she's losing it!"_

_The shock of another voice, so achingly close, startled Molly into opening her eyes. It was as almost as dark with her eyes open as it had been when they were closed, the only light being a flickering orange bulb swinging sadly above their heads, but she could just about make out four shadows leaning over her, three men and a woman by the looks of things. Closest to her was a young man, perhaps about ten years or so younger than Molly – his hair was a thick mop of curly chestnut brown, his eyes a peculiar shade of bright green. Eyes that were currently boring into hers, one hand curled around her neck, the other resting softly against her cheek. _

_**Concerned. He looks genuinely **__**concerned**__._

"_What's your name?" he asked, and Molly recognised his pleasing baritone as the voice she'd heard a moment ago. She tried to steady her breathing, to calm herself down like she knew she should, but her heart was unstoppable, banging angrier and angrier against her chest until she thought it was going to cave in. She could hear her shallow gasps, even above the din of everything else. __**The sobbing, the laughter, the chains-**_

_She clasped her hands over her ears and pressed her knees up against her chest, forcing the youth away from her; he scuttled back over the dirty concrete below them and stared at her with a pitying expression. "Make it stop, please," she said, as quiet as a mouse. Her voice didn't sound like her own, didn't sound like it was coming from her. "Please make it stop, please."_

_The youth glanced upwards at the others, silently begging for help. He couldn't be the one to tell her where she was now. He couldn't bear it. _

_One of the other men sighed, a deep rattling sigh, and then he leant down, hissing in a breath as the motion sent a shockwave of pain through his knees. His damn fucking knees. _

_He lowered himself into a position where his eyes were level to the new girl's, and she looked up at him. He opened his mouth to speak, when her eyes caught him off-guard. Big eyes, a soft warm brown colour like freshly brewed tea, so achingly familiar to his daughter's eyes he couldn't focus. __**Elizabeth, she looks just like Elizabeth**__. _

"_I'm so sorry," he blurted out, tears forming in his eyes, his voice breaking as he spoke. Elizabeth blinked up at him, her big brown eyes watery, as big as saucers. __**I'm so sorry, Elizabeth, I'm so sorry**__. "I'm, I'm so-" was all he could manage before the threat of tears forced him into silence again, clogging up his throat and choking away his words. He could feel the others looking at him in surprise; not once, since they'd dragged him here, had they ever seen Michael O'Hara cry. _

_He blinked hard against the tears and looked at Elizabeth's face again. __**Not Elizabeth**__, __**all she has is her eyes**__._

"_What's your name?" Michael asked calmly, a calm he didn't feel. _

_The girl blinked at him again, like she didn't understand the question. Michael noticed how she shook then, like an earthquake only she could feel was rocking her. Her face, he could see in the minimal lighting, was a deathly shade of white. _

"_Your name," he tried again, keeping his voice level. "What's your name?" _

"_Maybe she don't speak English," Razor suggested, slouching against the cold concrete wall with a nonchalance that made Michael want to slap him. Michael gritted his teeth. "She just spoke English not five minutes ago, you moron," Rochelle snapped at Razor, shooting him an impressive glower with her silvery grey eyes. Razor didn't even blink. _

_Michael tried again. "Do you remember your name?" Michael asked. Talking to this girl was like trying to calm down an armed suspect. _

_The girl swallowed hard, her eyes darting from Michael, to Razor observing her coolly from in the corner, to Rochelle standing just behind Michael, to Leon at her side. __**Frightened out of her goddamn mind**__. At least she was clever enough to be frightened. Razor was so goddamn relaxed you'd think this whole thing was nothing more than a simple misunderstanding. _

_**She doesn't know about the vampires**__, a voice in the back of Michael's head warned him. __**She won't know why you're here**__._

_God help him if he had to explain that to her._

_He opened his mouth to ask again, but she beat him to it, a voice like the squeak of a mouse. "Molly… m-my name's Molly."_

_Michael allowed a smile to cross his face, warm and reassuring. "It's…" he paused. 'Nice to meet you' sounded wrong, given the circumstances of their introduction, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He changed tack quickly. "That's a pretty name, Molly. Pretty name for a pretty girl."_

_Razor snorted behind him. "Fucking creep her out, then."_

_He was promptly ignored._

"_My name's Michael," he pointed to himself as he spoke, touching the space just above his heart. He could feel his ribcage through the thin, mottled grey t-shirt he was wearing. "This is Rochelle," he gestured to the young woman looming over him, and she flashed Molly a smile, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "This is Leon." The boy gave Molly a half-hearted grin. "And that's Razor," Michael said, unable to stop his voice from souring as he spoke. A smirk touched Razor's lips, but he didn't say anything, simply gave Molly a curt nod in acknowledgement._

_She looked at them all in turn slowly, and then turned back to Michael._

_He knew the question coming._

"_Where are we?"_

_Michael hesitated. __**God help me**__._

_He felt a hand at his shoulder. Rochelle. _

_She leaned down until she was crouched next to Michael. There was an uncharacteristic look of sympathy etched onto her ebony features. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm truly so sorry…" Rochelle met Michael's eyes for a moment. The look in her eyes was hard. "We're… we're in the Bay."_

_Molly's eyes widened. Her lips mouthed the 'no' her voice couldn't make._

"_The fucking Slaughterhouse," Razor crowed bitterly. Michael hated him at that moment. _

_Molly looked at Razor, and then she saw. She __**saw**__. The bars of the cell boxing them in. The buttons on the wall that opened their cell door. The empty metallic trays, the empty cups. _

_**The sobbing. The laughter. The chains**__._

_Oh dear lord._

_Michael noticed Molly's lips turning blue and immediately began to panic. __**Shock**__._

"_Got all us allllll boxed in, packed and packaged and ready to eat," Razor continued, ignoring the sudden flurry of movement beside him as the others tried to coax the new girl out of her shock. __**Weak. **__**Weak**__**. **__"They bite, and they bite, and they bite, until they can sell us off to somebody else who'll do the exact same __**goddamn thing-**__"_

"_For god's sake, Razor, __**shut the fuck up, **__okay?!" Leon shouted desperately, barely even looking at Razor as he wrapped his blanket over Molly's trembling shoulders. Razor's lips curled upwards in disgust. "She's gotta know, man, she's gotta know __**exactly **__what she is in for-"_

"_Razor, I swear to God-"_

"_You heard them last night, man, you __**know **__they are coming back down for her sooner rather than later-"_

_Michael leapt up, ignoring the protesting shriek of agony in his knees as he slammed Razor against the cell bars, his forearm pressed tightly against his neck. "__**Shut – the **__**fuck**__** up, or I swear to God there will not be a single **__**goddamn thing left**__** for the vampires to chew on, are we clear**__?!"_

_The silence that followed lasted for all of two seconds before Molly spoke up. "What did you mean; they're coming back for me?"_

_Goddamn Razor. Goddamn __**fucking Razor**__._

"_Molly-" Rochelle started, but Razor cut her off, his voice raspy from Michael's attack. "The big boss man got some sort of special interest in you, girl, some special reason he snatched you up." He started to laugh then. The noise bounced off the walls of the cell, making it sound like there were hundreds of Razors, all laughing at her in unison. "He's coming back for __**you**__! Coming back to get whatever you have that he wants, and then he's gunna drain you __**dry**__!"_

_Molly didn't even register the sound Michael's fist made as it connected with Razor's jaw, nor did she hear his head crack off the wall behind him. She did see him slump to the floor, unconscious at Michael's feet, but she didn't, __**couldn't **__register it. _

_**What have I done? What information could I possibly have that could be valuable to anyone?! What could I have possibly got that someone could-**_

_Oh._

_**Oh**__._

_She knew it then, knew it without any shadow of a doubt._

_Sherlock. _

_This was about Sherlock. _


	3. Chapter 3

"We're leaving. _Now_."

Jackson stared in complete and utter bewilderment as John pulled on his black jacket; shoving his arms through the sleeves with such ferocity Jackson was convinced John was going to rip them straight off. He then stormed over to a tall set of dented metallic drawers, right by Jackson's feet, and yanked out a small, but undeniably deadly handgun, giving the chamber a quick once over before shoving a few spare clips into his side pocket. Jackson caught a glimpse of flawless silver nestled snugly in the gun's chamber before John snapped it shut. The look on John's face was eerily calm, fixed with a look of grim determination. _The doctor preparing for war._

Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn't moved an inch. His hands were still clutching the fabric of Jackson's black shirt.

"Sherlock, we need to move, _now_," John said, a little louder this time, his hands still a blur of movement, shoving every necessary item into its pre-planned place. Jackson remembered watching John plan his survival kit out, organising what weapon went where, which drugs went into which pocket, even which clothes he'd be wearing on such an occasion. Jackson had scoffed.

Jackson, as per usual, was regretting that now.

Sherlock, meanwhile, still hadn't moved.

"_Sherlock_," John shouted, marching into the kitchen to pick up the next item on his mental checklist. _Maybe he's bringing an emergency supply of tea_. Jackson had to clamp down hard on the hysterical urge to giggle at the thought of John marching back out of the kitchen, armed with various flavours of tea.

"_Of course_," Sherlock hissed suddenly, his nails digging even deeper into Jackson's skin, making the younger man flinch violently. Sherlock's eyes met Jackson's, and they were positively bouncing, the unusual shade of grey-green that made Sherlock look slightly inhuman shining as brightly as spotlights into Jackson's. It was blinding. "Of course!" Sherlock crowed, jumping away from Jackson in one sprightly bounce before he began pacing the space in front of Jackson, muttering to himself so frantically it didn't even sound like English anymore. His eyes flickered manically as he thought. _Thought after thought colliding with each other, names, places, motives, Molly, poor sweet simple Molly, why Molly, why take Molly, they hadn't seen each other in over a year, hadn't even spoken in over a year, why her, why now?_

So many delicious questions. Sherlock couldn't help the slow smile that spread across his face. _Oh, we haven't had a clever vampire in __**so long**_.

Jackson stared up at him, wide-eyed. He recognised that look, that scary slow smile. The last time he'd seen that smile, Jackson had been knocked unconscious and hung upside down off the edge of a building, for the purpose of being 'excellent vampire bait'. Jackson had had rope burns for a week on his ankles because of that incident. It had taken him nearly a full month before he spoke to Sherlock again. "John," he called, keeping his eyes on Sherlock warily. "He's doing that thing again."

Jackson heard a muttered 'oh, you have got to be-' before John reappeared, a warning written all over his face. "Sherlock, whatever you're thinking, no."

"You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"Trust me, I do, and the answer is _no_, okay? _We_ have got to get _out _of here, right now, before somebody shows up looking for us."

"Why look for a fight when it's already here?" Sherlock said, so quickly Jackson almost missed what he said, and then he clapped, the sound as loud as a thunder bolt. "They're using Molly as bait, trying to draw me out, but _why_? If they'd wanted revenge, they would've come here immediately, for me, for either of you two, but they didn't, they broke into Molly's home and took her and have undoubtedly followed her sister here, straight to us."

Jackson felt a pang of guilt. _I led them here_.

"Oh, don't be so stupid, how could you know they were following her?" Sherlock snapped at him, and Jackson gawped up at him, one hundred percent convinced Sherlock had read his mind for a brief moment before reality sank back in. _That's just Sherlock, that's how he is_.

Jackson still allowed himself a moment to test himself. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. _Banana cheese pizza_.

"Jackson, please stop staring at me like that, it's most off-putting."

"Still can't read my mind?"

"Why would I need to, you're so blindingly obvious to read, you might as well be narrating your own thoughts," Sherlock clapped again, ignoring Jackson's petulant scowl. "They'll be humans, a vampire would draw too much notice, would never be able to slip in unnoticed. They won't be here to kill us, why kidnap Molly if they were here just to kill us?"

"It's a game," Jackson said slowly, somehow managing to feel both as cold as the grave and boiling with anger simultaneously.

"They don't us dead, they want us to follow the breadcrumbs, back to Molly, back to them…" Sherlock trailed off back into thoughtful contemplation. John walked back into the room and his eyes met Jackson's. He gave the younger man a curt nod, and Jackson slid off the sofa, walking with impressive speed out of the room. John could hear his footsteps thumping against the staircase as he ran.

He looked at Sherlock and his heart twisted. He knew the games vampires liked to plan, had known them his entire life; he'd fought against them, had experienced just how much pain they liked to cause when his patients had been wheeled in to see him, bleeding from every possible piece of skin visible, their throats hacked to pieces, their faces as white as bone. John Watson knew how merciless vampires could be and the thought of Molly Hooper, _sweet Molly Hooper_, being held as bait by a vampire was more than he could stomach. The acidic taste of bile rose in his throat.

"Sherlock," he said, trying to force away the images flashing through his head.

"She'll have been tortured." John winced at the words his best friend was saying. "This isn't the type of game where they let her go at the end, this is-"

"The type of game where we all die," John finished for him, his voice hollow.

"In undoubtedly creative and excruciatingly painful ways, I'm sure."

"Gee, thanks Sherlock, that was just what I needed to hear."

"It should be, it's the truth."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I could tell."

John looked at Sherlock, grappling with the fond exasperation that usually gripped him whenever he spoke to Sherlock. He looked at his friend, _really _looked: at the unruly brown curls; at the sharp green-grey eyes that had always reminded him of a cat's eyes; at the thin lips, currently rippling with unspoken words; at the flawless ivory skin, so pale it almost looked translucent.

Something gripped his stomach then, something so painful he couldn't even put it into words. Sherlock's words bounced around his head sickeningly. _This isn't the type of game where they let her go at the end_-

"Sherlock-" John started before Jackson burst back into the room, a triumphant grin on his handsome face. He carried a machete with a slick silver blade almost as long as his forearm, his fingers grasping the worn wrapped leather handle at its base. John saw it and couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. "Joyless?"

Jackson grinned at the name. He'd gotten the name from Watson himself, the very first time they'd met each other. John had taken the machete from a vampire, a vampire who had been in the process of attempting to rip Jackson's neck open with its elongated fangs: John had knocked the vampire down to the floor, keeping his big black military-booted foot on its neck as he'd angled the machete perfectly, before bringing it down right onto the middle of its forehead with a sickeningly smooth crunch. Afterwards, still as of then uninitiated in the professional world of vampire killing, Jackson had asked John how it had felt. Whether he'd felt a sense of satisfaction, like the one Jackson had almost been swooning on.

John had looked at him, looked at the eager youth, only just past his teens and wearing clothes that had long since needed to be disposed, and he'd said 'There is no sense of satisfaction here. This isn't something you're supposed to get joy from, kid."

He'd begun to walk away, pausing only to turn back to Jackson and hand him the machete, the leather grip warm and wet with quickly drying black blood. "You coming or what?"

"She's served me well so far," Jackson said, glancing down at the blade in question. "She can take care of a couple more."

"Anything else you need?"

"Nope, I'm all good."

"Good, let's go," John started towards the door, only to have the back of his coat seized by Sherlock. "Sherlock!" John protested, helpless to stop the much taller man as he dragged John halfway across the room. Jackson watched uncertainly, slipping Joyless into the holster he'd had specially made for the machete. It clung to his back eagerly; even though the metal part of the blade was tucked safely away in a chunky leather pouch, Jackson could still feel the icy cold sting of the metal against his skin.

"Is John being vampire bait this time? John, I've got an excellent cream for your rope burns for when we're finished," Jackson called, trailing lazily after the other two. Sherlock stopped by the window, the biggest one in the office, and removed his hands from John's coat, beginning instead to busy himself with opening the window. "As far as everybody else is concerned, the only way out is through the front door," he said with a grunt, shoving the window open. The cold night air rushed in instantly and both John and Jackson shuddered against its bite. "Once we're outside and we establish their position, we can evaluate how best to take them down."

John peered out of the window and blanched. "Sherlock, have you tested this jump before?" he said tersely.

"Not successfully, no. Slight problems with the landing."

John's eyes widened. "Please tell me that was a joke."

"Yes. That was a joke."

"It wasn't, was it?"

"No."

Sherlock sighed and peered past him. "There's a skip right at the bottom. Seems full, should be able to sustain our weight."

"Wait!" Jackson snapped, grabbing a handful of Sherlock's coat as he made to jump. Ignoring the foul look Sherlock gave him at the mistreatment of his coat, Jackson glanced back towards the door. "Molly's sister's still out there."

Sherlock blinked, failing to see any relevance in his statement.

"She'll be in danger if we leave her here."

Again with the blink.

"Now that they've found us, Molly's sister is no longer useful to them. They have no logical reason to take her, especially since she has no ties to us whatsoever."

"Meaning?"

"She'd be really shitty leverage," John mumbled. Sherlock glowered at him.

"They could use her as leverage over Molly," Jackson protested, trying to ignore the chill of the wind as best he could. At least the warmth of the holster was warming his back quite nicely.

"To do what with, Jackson? The only thing Molly is good for in their hands is bait for us; there is nothing else she can do to ensure our capture."

_Damn. He was right_.

"Of course, I'm right, I'm always right."

"I really wish you'd stop doing that."

"I know," Sherlock said, turning around and shooting Jackson a mischievous grin that was so completely and utterly Sherlock Jackson couldn't help but grin back. "I read it perfectly clearly."

"Maybe we should go back and-_Sherlock_!" John shouted as Sherlock vaulted from the open window; Jackson and John stuck their heads out, watching with open mouths as Sherlock disappeared with a clatter into the skip.

Only to reappear a moment later, seemingly without any injuries.

"Well. He's not dead."

"I think it'd take a lot more than a fall to kill Sherlock."

"Not if we're lucky."

"Age before beauty?" Jackson swept his hand out in front of him towards the window, grinning maniacally. John scowled at him, but climbed up anyway.

"If we're lucky, maybe the only thing you'll break is your jumper."

"Bite me, Jax."

Jackson grinned as John disappeared down the side of the building, appearing unscathed a second later, scowling and brushing pieces of rubbish off his shoulders. He glanced up and Jackson grinned wider. "How's the jumper?" he called. The middle finger back made Jackson howl.

0o0

_The door opened and Molly Hooper lifted her head automatically, trying her best not to cry. She'd been in this room, this much too bright and much too large room tied to this much too uncomfortable chair,, for a while now, hours possibly, she couldn't possibly tell. They'd come for her, just like Razor had said, quicker than any of them were expecting: Michael had still been trying to lull her out of her shock when the cell doors had opened and two men, two __**vampires**__, had strolled in. Big men, huge, both staring impassively at the small huddle of people in the cell in front of them. Their eyes had briefly noted Razor's unconscious form before they'd forced their way into the cell, pushing aside the others and yanking Molly off the ground, wrapping their hand so tightly around her arms she knew she'd have bruises sooner rather than later._

_She'd sat for so long imagining all the things they were going to do to her before she died._

_Now it seemed it was about to begin._

_It was a moment before somebody actually walked in after they'd opened the door, and it was not at all who Molly was expecting: instead of a tall burly man, armed to the teeth with knives and a sadistic smile, it was a man in an impeccable dark blue suit, spotless white shirt and tie combination. He was slight, hiding his muscle deceptively under his slender frame; his hair was as black as ink, cropped short and styled with careful casualness. He looked so normal, so perfectly normal – outrageously handsome, but even then in a completely normal way. The only part of him that wasn't normal were his eyes: as black as his hair, glistening like spilled ink, a silvery glint providing the only point of light in his eyes. _

_**There's something off about his eyes**__._

_Molly braced herself to be on guard – only to find herself taken completely by surprise when the man started crying, quietly like he was forcing himself not to wail; his mouth moved in silent anguish as he cried, glancing back over his shoulder at some unseen person behind him before he looked back at Molly._

"_Please," he sobbed, and the sound broke Molly's heart. This was a man frightened for his life. "Please, you have to help me, please," he said, approaching her slowly but with increased desperation, like she could provide a way out if only she were willing. His voice should've been pleasant to listen to, if it weren't for the tears: he had a soft Irish lilt that somehow made his pleas seem all the more heartbreaking._

"_I don't…" Molly tried to speak, but her voice was just as weak as his. "I don't know what I can do, I don't know what to do, I-"_

"_They said to ask you about Sherlock," the man said, repeating the word uncertainly. "They said they need to know more about Sherlock."_

_Molly's throat closed up. "I… I don't know anything about Sherlock, I-"_

_The man moved suddenly then, his hands gripping her knees with an iron grip. He looked up at her desperately. "I am __**begging **__you, __**please**__. Please, you have to tell them something, please, otherwise they'll… they'll kill me, __**please**__!" he begged, speaking so passionately Molly felt herself beginning to cry along with him. __**I am so sorry**__, she thought miserably. _

"_I don't know what they wa… what do they want to know?"_

_The man's whole face lit up, he was that relieved she was deciding to help out. "Anything. Anything at all, they just want to know about Sherlock."_

_Molly hesitated. Anything she told them about Sherlock would only be used to hurt him, to __**kill **__him… the very idea made her feel physically ill. She didn't care how things had been left between them, she didn't care that he hadn't contacted her in way over a year now; she couldn't throw him to the wolves like that. But… but she couldn't stand by and let a man die, either. No matter what this world had tried to teach her, no matter how many times she heard that other people were 'expendable', she couldn't do it. That wasn't who she was, no matter what._

_Besides, she didn't even know that much anyway. There wasn't a whole lot to tell about Sherlock Holmes, nothing that could be of any use to them._

"_I haven't seen him in a long time," she tried, reaching out for anything to tell them. "I don't, I don't know where he is now, he might've moved, he might've gone, I don't-"_

"_**Please**__, just tell them what you know. Please, that's all they need, please."_

_Molly Hooper sighed, looking into the eyes of the desperate man at her feet. __**Forgive me, Sherlock**__._

__0o0

James Moriarty left the woman weeping to herself, closing the door behind him with one last reluctant sob.

And then he smiled.

Some people were so _wonderfully_ easy to play with.


	4. Chapter 4

_Been up all night writing this; took me about three attempts to get it how I wanted it! I apologise if there are spelling mistakes and whatnot, I am oh-so-very tired. :D_

_Enjoy!_

Jackson peered over the crumbling brick wall for a brief second, finding his targets almost immediately before dropping back into a crouch, his back stooped to an almost painful degree. _Joyless_ lay next to him on the ground, mere inches away from his right hand.

"I can see two of them stood outside St Bart's," he whispered, peering down into Sherlock's almost luminous eyes; the rest of his face was covered in shadow, giving him an eerie look that almost frightened Jackson. He looked up again, staring at the two figures looming with a total lack of subtlety outside the bar; they were talking to each other in hushed tones, almost snapping at each other, it seemed to Jackson. One was a lot taller than the other, tall and broad, a bouncer's build. The other was shorter but no less stocky, even wider than his friend. Both definitely not vampires – vampires would definitely not be that noisy, nor that shamefully obvious. All the more reason to feel nervous; Jackson was sure these two idiots weren't here alone. They couldn't be. It wasn't logical. It was a _joke_.

"There's gotta be somebody else here," he muttered, almost to himself. "There's no way somebody let these two come alone to make a grab at us."

"Exactly what I was thinking," John murmured back. His bright blue eyes hadn't left the two thugs since the three of them had first spotted them, almost unblinking in his unwaveringness. It was terrifying. "Sherlock?"

"There's someone on the roof to our left."

Jackson felt his spine stiffen and fought the urge to turn to look. His hand crept towards _Joyless_.

"You're sure?" John said. His voice was like ice.

"Positive. He's been standing there for quite some time now."

"And he's not made a move," John said without the slightest question in his voice. "Vampire?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Here to keep an eye on these two?"

"No."

"No?"

"He's here to watch us."

Jackson gripped the handle of his machete tightly. "What do you mean, _here to watch us_?"

"He could've come down here at any point during the last ten minutes, he could've killed us before you'd have even noticed he was there, but he hasn't. He's waiting for us to make our move."

"He's playing with us," Jackson said, anger bubbling up in his stomach. "This is a _game_."

"Exactly," Sherlock murmured, watching the two men in front of them while barely even registering their presence; his eyes looked distant, distracted, a whirlwind of obsidian green. "He wants to see what we'll do with his goon squad."

"And what exactly are we going to do with them?" John asked quietly. The look in his cold blue eyes gave a very clear indication as to what approach the doctor thought they should take.

Jackson had a feeling that he and the doctor were on a very similar wavelength.

"We're not going to kill them," Sherlock scolded the others, drawing scowls from both men, even as John kept his gaze locked tightly in front of him. "That's not how they want us to play."

"I don't remember reading that in the rule book," Jackson said, fixing the targets in front of him with an almost hungry stare. _Joyless _ached in his hand.

"They might have something useful they can tell us about where Molly is," John said, almost as if he was trying to convince himself not to kill them. Jackson was sure he wouldn't take much persuading to do otherwise.

"They won't know a thing about Molly," Sherlock dismissed immediately, and cut John off as the doctor opened his mouth to protest. "These two are clearly low-ranking employees, one step ahead from simply being a buffet option, would you tell these two anything even vaguely important about your plans?" John scowled, and Sherlock fought back the urge to grin triumphantly. It amused him no end how alike Jackson and John looked when they had that expression of fond exasperation on their faces. It was, quite frankly, adorable.

"Is killing them back on the table, then?" Jackson asked, stealing a quick glance out of the corner of his eye at the vampire on the roof; it was impossible to tell anything remotely useful about him, nothing even slightly apparent about his character except that he was male, and that he was standing very close to the edge of the roof he was peering off of. And he was staring at them: Jackson couldn't see his eyes, not from this distance, but he could practically feel the man's gaze burning a hole in his back. _We're the entertainment here, not the two fools up front_.

"No, it most certainly is not," Sherlock said, sneaking a glance at the younger man; Jackson kept his eyes forward, watching the two men with an obsessive eye, and Sherlock couldn't help thinking how much like a wild animal Jackson seemed to him then: his eyes were burning, a fiery storm of blue, and his stance was prone, ready to leap up in one movement, bringing that machete down in one graceful arc. _Like a wild cat stalking its prey_. Sherlock had seen Jackson kill before, and it had disturbed him how beautiful he'd found it. Even the word, _beautiful_, was wrong, wrong to describe the brutal art of death in such a way, but Jackson had managed it. He was a different person with a blade in his hand, a person that fascinated Sherlock no end. "We split them up," he heard John say. "One of us leads the two goons away; the other two go after the vampire, find out what he knows, and regroup again afterwards."

"Provided everything doesn't go to hell in between."

John looked at Jackson, a half smile on his lips. "Ever the pessimist."

"Years of being bait will do that to you."

"So glad you could volunteer for the role of bait this time around, Jax."

"Well, neither of you know the lines quite as well as me; you'd definitely fuck it up somehow."

Sherlock growled at the curse, and Jackson grinned.

The grin vanished a moment later as he looked at the two of them. "And if this does go wrong?"

John and Sherlock considered each other gravely for a second.

John cleared his throat and swallowed hard.

"You know what to do."

Sherlock let out a groan so loud the other two men jumped, looking up immediately to see if the two thugs had heard them. They remained thankfully oblivious. "John, the idea of going to _Lestrade _for help is quite simply-"

"One of the only options we have left," John finished for him, fixing Sherlock with a stern stare. "He knows us, he…" John paused for a brief moment, glancing at Sherlock with an amused glint in his eye. "He _tolerates _us, he's a good man. He'll help."

"_Help_," Sherlock scoffed under his breath, contemptuously. He was ignored.

"So," Jackson said, feeling the adrenaline begin to seep into his veins as he braced himself to make a run for it. "Nobody else want to take a crack at being bait?"

Sherlock smiled up at him sweetly. "Nobody can quite play it like you, Jackson."

"Next time, we start picking names out of a hat," Jackson said, slipping the machete into the holster. He slowly rose out of his crouch, pressing his hands against the brick wall in front of them, his muscles tensing in delicious anticipation.

"We tried that, remember?" John said, his voice full of the amusement hidden from his face. "Sherlock changed all the ballots to your name. Hey," he said suddenly, just as Jackson was about to push himself over the wall. Jackson glanced down at him and the concern in the doctor's face genuinely made Jackson's throat close up. "Be careful, okay?"

Jackson nodded, surprised at the emotional tone in the doctor's voice and at his own emotional response, swallowed hard and flashed John a devilish grin. "Try your hardest to get vampire blood on the jumper, John. It'll be impossible to get out. You'll probably have to get rid of it." Before John could formulate a response, Jackson slammed down on the brick wall, sending chunks of brick flying from the crumbling structure, and he threw himself over the wall, breaking into a run as soon as his feet touched the other side. The two goons heard him coming almost immediately, whirling round with a look of shock on their faces. A look which quickly morphed into sadistic grins as they took in his solidarity.

Internally, Jackson grinned. _I do love it when they get cocky_.

Externally, he made sure to make his eyes pop, dropping his mouth in mock horror before tearing off to the left, pelting away from them at an impressive speed. It took them a moment, but soon enough Jackson could hear their footsteps pounding against the ground after him, wordless threats being shouted at him as they chased after him. Jackson allowed himself a wide smirk. _Must only kill them a little bit_.

0o0

Sebastian Moran watched with a bemused smirk as the youngest of the three started running, drawing the two idiots away with such ease he felt embarrassed on their behalf. _Idiots_. It'd be such a disappointment if the kid didn't kill them. He wanted nothing more than to erase their association to him and to the group completely and utterly. He wanted no trace of them even being allowed to breathe the same air as him.

He was tempted to tail the kid, to dispose of the two goons himself before bringing all three of these human detectives back for his boss, but he could see the other two already making their way up to him, and _this _was the one the boss was really after, the tall lanky one with the mop of curly hair. The others were important, sure, but only as pawns to torment the other one with: as soon as the boss was done with his little game, he'd have them sold on quicker than they could blink, loaned out to be drained dry. _He'll get a pretty price for this bunch,_ Moran thought to himself, allowing one long look at the two currently thundering their way towards him; handsome faces, muscular builds, notorious troublemakers. _Gives people a chance to break 'em in first, have a little fun_. Moran was half tempted to put a bid in at the end of all this, just to see how they'd _taste_ – there was nothing more satisfying in this world than making someone watch as you licked their own blood clean from your fingers, grinning at them with teeth stained with their blood. Moran felt a shiver of anticipation crawl over him, a helpless smile cross his face. He preferred human women when the opportunity for choice was given, but he wouldn't turn down this either. Such exciting options… _Mustn't get too hopeful_, a voice in the back of his head scolded him. _You know how rough the boss likes to play_.

_Not with the other two_, he thought, eyeing the shorter of the duo coming slowly towards him, the one with the short blonde hair and the blue eyes. Moran's hawk-like gaze missed nothing, even from so far away. _The tall brunette's his main goal, that's the one he's after. He won't miss the other two. _

Moran heard a door slam then, a door relatively close to him, and he smiled, fading back into the shadows. _Two new toys for the boss_.

0o0

Sherlock slammed against the door to the roof, the cold air hitting him almost before the door was open, and he leapt outside, pistol withdrawn, eyes narrowed and searching. John was right behind him, keeping as close to him as his own shadow.

The roof was barren and empty, not even a hint of life. _Where the hell was he_?

"Why Molly Hooper?" he called, his voice ghosted away by the wind. It sounded so much more ferocious up here, angrier and much more vicious, ripping furiously at his clothes, at his face. It stung. "She must've told you we haven't seen each other in over a year, why kidnap her to get to me?"

A faint whisper of noise trickled out from behind them, and both men span to attention, weapons pointed into the pitch black. John felt a bead of sweat drip down the back of his neck. _I bloody hate fighting in the dark_.

No response from the vampire.

"She was of no special interest to your group," Sherlock continued, looking around slowly. "She's never killed one of you, never stole from one of you, didn't even live in an area even remotely near you. So, _why her_? Why her, why not come for me directly? Could've saved you the effort of entertaining her in my absence."

Much too late, Sherlock heard a chuckle from behind him, so close he could feel hot breath on his neck. _How did he get that close without me hearing him, that's not possible_. "Trust me, it was a pleasure."

John span around just as the vampire wrapped one arm around Sherlock's neck, pulling him back so that Sherlock's body was pressed almost right up against the vampire's; the other arm was pulled around Sherlock's waist, keeping him locked into position in an iron grip. John gritted his teeth and forced himself not to panic. _Not Sherlock, not Sherlock, not Sherlock, not-_ "Let him go. _Now_."

"Drop your weapon. _Now_."

John snarled at the mimic of his voice. "I _will _kill you, make no mistake about that."

The vampire moved his face so that it was visible over Sherlock's shoulder. All John could see was a pair of olive green eyes and a shock of dark red hair. "By the time you manage to fire off a round of that little gun of yours, I can have moved your friend right into the firing line, letting the bullet make a big mess of that head of his." The vampire squeezed his arm around Sherlock's neck and the choking sound that emanated from his friend made John see red around the edges. "And after I've finished draining his still beating heart of every last drop of blood he has left that you haven't blown all over this rooftop, I'll make sure to drop you off with my boss and let you explain what happened. And, let me tell you," he said, dropping his voice even lower, and letting a smirk cross his face. "He ain't the type of man you want to bring bad news to."

John gripped the gun even tighter, flicking his eyes from Sherlock to the vampire and then back again. Sherlock's face was quickly turning blue, and his fingers were clawing frantically at the vampire's arm, something that the vampire didn't even seem to be aware of. His eyes never left John's, the smirk growing wider and wider.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, __**fuck**_.

_I can't let him kill Sherlock. I can't._

_But I can't let him take Sherlock either_.

No way to shoot him, any part of him, without hitting Sherlock. Nowhere to hit Sherlock that would allow the vampire to drop him without causing Sherlock serious injury. Nowhere to run.

_Fuck_.

At that precise moment, as John was about to thrown down his gun at the vampire's feet, he heard a voice. Jackson's voice.

"_**JOHN**_."

The vampire's eyes left John's for a brief second, just a moment, but it was enough: John charged forwards, slamming himself into Sherlock's stomach; he heard the breath leave his friend completely, and they all toppled to the floor in a heap, snapping and kicking at each other before they'd even hit the ground. John landed a punch straight to the vampire's jaw, loosening his grip on Sherlock enough that he was able to scrabble free, wheezing and coughing for dear life.

"_**SHERLOCK!**_"

Sherlock's head snapped up. _Jackson. Must warn Jackson._

He dragged himself upright and, noticing the vampire crawling on top of a winded John, charged straight into him, sending him flying off to the side.

"_**Warn Jackson**_!" John screamed at Sherlock before running at the vampire again, kicking him square in the ribs before running towards his dropped gun. Sherlock leapt on the vampire again just as he grabbed John's ankle, pulling him back down to the ground and dragging him back towards him.

"_**JOHN!**_"

John was vaguely aware of Jackson's voice, shrieking his name at him over the howl of the wind and the ringing in his ears, but his head was woozy, slammed against the concrete floor of the rooftop beneath him. He could taste blood in his mouth. _This isn't going well_, he thought calmly to himself as he noticed Sherlock go flying across the rooftop. _This is a trained vampire, this one has skills. I __**hate**__ trained vampires_.

"_**GUYS!**_"

_Warn Jackson. Must warn Jackson._

John lurched upwards, almost staggering off the edge of the rooftop. He didn't bother looking around to see if he could see Jackson, his vision was too gone for that. "_**JACKSON, RUN**_," he bellowed, as loud and as strong as he could. Movement caught his eye, and he glanced downwards, to see a tiny shadow staring up at him. "_**JACKSON, GO, DON'T-"**_ he continued before a hand grabbed the back of his jumper and yanked backwards, sending him flying back down on the floor. His skull cracked hard on the concrete and darkness swirled in eagerly.

The last thing he heard before it consumed him was a smug laugh.

0o0

After about five minutes of running, Jackson decided enough was enough. It was practically a gentle jog at this pace.

He stopped abruptly and turned back to face the two oncoming thugs, both red faced and out of breath. _Jesus Christ, I could push the two of them over with a feather and they'd go down_. He stared at them in bewildered bemusement as they bent over, hands on knees, huffing in breaths like people who'd been deprived of oxygen for twenty years.

"Tea break?" he suggested brightly, enjoying the look of total loathing both goons shot him simultaneously. He was barely even out of breath, this was fantastic. _I won't even have to use Joyless, I could literally just nudge them with my foot_.

The tallest one recovered first, lunging out of his crouch straight at Jackson; it was all too easy to sidestep him, watching him sail through the air with a comical look of disappointment on his face before he crashed to the ground. Jackson strolled over, enjoying the ease of the moment, and slammed a heavy boot into the goon's face; blood spouted from his pug-like nose and his eyes dropped, unconscious within seconds.

_That was unfairly easy_. Jackson turned to Thug Number 2, who gave him a frightened look. He grinned back, showing off his teeth. "Shall we?" he asked excitedly.

Thug Number 2 observed him briefly for a moment, before slowly folding out onto the ground, lying down and closing his eyes so peacefully it looked like he was just going to sleep in a really bizarre location. Jackson had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. _Being bait didn't actually turn out horribly. Who knew_. He waltzed past the prone bodies on the floor, resisting the urge to knock the other one out of pure malicious glee. _Too easy, it would just be cruel_. He broke into a quick jog, though, not wanting them to experience a sudden rejuvenation of energy and come at him like mad dogs. Not that that was a possibility, but it had happened, and Jackson still remembered the beating he'd gotten from one such occasion. His jaw still clicked whenever he yawned.

He ran back to where they'd found the goons, and looked up at the building where the vampire had been standing. At least, he assumed that was the building; the old buildings hadn't really been used for much, except for housing homeless, prostitutes and drug dealers, but they still stood tall after all these years, after all the death and destruction the War for the Dawn had caused. Now they were all lit up with big neon lettering, advertisements for things he'd never remember tomorrow, and he couldn't tell which building had been the one. _Shit_.

"_**JOHN**_," he roared, spinning around to see if he could spot movement on top of any of the towers. Nothing. Not even a flicker. He waited a few more moments, glancing around him nervously at the slightest sound, and then tried again. "_**SHERLOCK**_!"

Noise, he was sure of it; he glanced up at the building in front of him, a smaller building in comparison to the others. _This one, I'm sure it was this one_. He squinted upwards, trying to spot something, _anything_. "_**JOHN!"**_ _Goddammit, where were they?_ Jackson's heart began to pound. _**"GUYS!"**_

Finally, a figure appeared, at the top of the building Jackson was looking at; the relief Jackson felt at seeing it quickly evaporated as the shadow began to shout. "_**JACKSON, RUN!**_" That was John's voice. _Holy shit, they're in trouble._ Jackson started forward, but the sound of John's voice stalled him again. "_**JACKSON, GO, DON'T-"**_

John was yanked away from the edge then, pulled backwards into the darkness, and then all was quiet. Jackson couldn't hear a thing over his thumping heartbeat. His mouth felt drier than a desert. _What the fuck was going on?!_

A figure appeared at the ledge again, and instinctively Jackson knew who it was.

The vampire stared down unblinkingly at Jackson, and Jackson could imagine the smile on its face from here. He froze, locked into place by panic. _Run, you idiot, __**run**_.

_Sherlock… John… I can't-_

_You'll be of no help to them dead, now __**go**_.

Gritting his teeth and hating every single fibre of his being, Jackson Coltrane turned and ran, ran until his legs burned and his lungs screamed. _Find Lestrade. Got to find Lestrade_.

0o0

Sebastian Moran watched the last one, _Jackson_, sprint away, moving with surprisingly quick speed for a human. He ached to chase after him, to hunt him down like he rightly should. _The thrill of the chase_. It was a particularly favourite pastime of his, and Jackson whateverhisnamewas looked like he'd be a good hunt. _He looks like a fighter_. Moran was almost salivating at the thought, his fangs aching with the urge to go and rip into the kid's throat, but he reluctantly shook himself. _As soon as you get these two back to the boss, you can go hunt the kid_.

That thought brightened him up considerably as he considered the two unconscious bodies beneath him. _Off to Moriarty, you go, _he thought as he saw more men arrive, piling eagerly out of a waiting van and marching their way up towards him. _Poor fuckers_.


End file.
